


An Unexpected Drabble Collection

by Evandar



Series: Tolkien Drabbles [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU - Bilbo is Yavanna, AU - Vampire Bard, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Genderswap, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, poor communication skills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1 - Familiar Power - Yavanna finds the Ring<br/>2 - Into the West - Bilbo and Frodo's ghosts still linger<br/>3 - Vampire - Bard is more than just a boatman<br/>4 - The Doors are Shut - Legolas has some difficulty working with Gimli<br/>5 - Stiff Necks - Gimli is proud, but he's not the only one.<br/>6 - Vigil - Lindir waits for his Lord to return from Dol Guldur<br/>7 - Bedrolls - Narvi is cold at night; Celebrimbor seeks to rectify that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Familiar Power

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for the Hobbit Kink Meme

She knows that power. The familiarity of it startles her and she almost drops the golden ring as she tries both to jerk away from it and cling onto it at the same time. She knows it, and knows that its being here is a terrible thing.

Mairon. 

She has seen the things he has wrought. For centuries she has heard but whispers from the Elves crossing the sea and the rage of her brothers after Numenor was corrupted, but she had never _seen_. Not until her husband came to her door in the form of a Dwarvish warrior and escorted her out into the wild. 

And oh, her husband. He is loyal to Thorin, but she knows his heart too well. When she brings this ring to light, he will sense it in a second. Was not Mairon once his favourite? Did he not once work in her husband's forge and lead his choirs in praise of Eru? Was it not her husband who first introduced his bright-eyed favourite to their treacherous brother? He will sense it and he will know - as she now knows - that for all the bravery of Men and Elves and Dwarves, the evil of Mairon still lingers in the world of Arda. 

She grieves, there in the dark, and from her tears spring glowing moss and lichen. She knows now that this adventure of hers has changed its path utterly - that if her husband has his way it will not lead to dragon fire but to the fires of Mordor instead. She cannot help but fear that. She fears the hardening of her husband’s heart and his endless sorrow for the Maia he had once loved. She fears what this diversion will do to Thorin, the king to whom her husband has pledged his mortal loyalty. More than any of the others, he will be tempted by what Mairon can offer; the ring sings sweetly even to her, and if it can call to a Vala then what hope does a Dwarf have?

She will change the fate of the world by bringing the ring to light. She knows that. But she knows as well that she cannot permit it to linger here, in the dark beneath the mountains – the ring cannot stay, and neither can she. There are goblins behind her and even here she knows she is not alone - the ring had to have found its way here somehow. Somewhere above her, whether in the halls of the Goblin King or in the free air, her husband and their companions are waiting for her. 

She slips the repulsive band of gold into the pocket of her waistcoat, grips her Elvish sword, and forces her feet to move deeper and deeper into the dark.


	2. Into the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their ghosts still linger, even as the dock fades out of sight.

“Uncle?”

Bilbo doesn’t stir. His chest rises and falls, but his eyes are fixed on some distant place. A mountain to the east, perhaps, with a lake at its foot and halls filled with treasure. Whatever it is, it’s something Frodo can’t see, even as he sits by his uncle’s side on the deck of the white ship.

It’s a chilly morning – bright and cold, but crisp and the sea air is nothing but refreshing. Yet Frodo finds little joy in it. The screaming of the gulls make him think of the shadows in Legolas’ eyes; the rocking of the boat makes him think of Queen Arwen, whose place on board he has taken with her blessing. Whose place passed to his uncle, he wonders. He doesn’t ask; he can guess - he remembers the stories of a woodland king, about whose neck his uncle hung a necklace of white gems. Instead of speaking, he simply makes sure that his uncle is wrapped securely in blankets to shelter him from the wind.

Bilbo is old. Older than any Hobbit has ever been. His hair is as white and wispy as the foam on the waves, and when Frodo looks at him he can see the shadows of his veins through his skin. He can see the Ring, stretching him thin and calling to his mind, and his uncle’s face twisting into Gollum’s. 

He shivers and draws his cloak tighter around him so that – if anyone saw – he could pretend it was from the wind, and he takes a frail hand in his own and watches his friends as they stand on the dock, fading into the distance. His hand, resting on his uncle’s, aches far more than even his heart does.


	3. Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boatman who finds the Dwarves isn't all that he seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes I have seen Dracula: Untold too many times already. Why do you ask?

He smells them before he sees them. Blood makes his mouth water and he leaves his boat to stalk them along the shore. A group of Dwarves, one of them badly wounded, and the battered barrels of the Woodland King. 

It's the barrels that give him pause. The Dwarves, whoever they are, are Thranduil's prisoners, and the Elvenking is one of the few who look upon him with compassion. He will not risk that alliance, no matter how much his fangs ache to bite, and he notches an arrow to his bow instead of attacking outright. 

He makes sure the clouds remain firmly overhead, regardless of the wind. 

He is spotted only when he intends to be, by a Dwarf sitting separate from the others, emptying water out of his boots. His eyes widen, and it's only with his cry that his comrades realise that there is a stranger in their midst. They are nothing to him, even though they bristle and threaten with stones and harsh words. Rocks, iron; things like that mean nothing to a creature out of legend - only Thranduil has heard of his kind before, and he has sworn friendship as long as Bard never preys on his people. 

He shoots a rock out of a Dwarf's hand before it can be thrown, and when he speaks he lets his fangs show. 

"Who are you?" he demands. "And what are you doing here?"

The Dwarves stare at his mouth, at the razor-sharp teeth that peek between his lips, and he wonders if they know just how much the realms of the North have changed in their absence.


	4. The Doors are Shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mithrandir believes that Legolas and Gimli, working together, can open the Doors of Moria. Reality is somewhat different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 'Poor Communication Skills' prompt on Trope Bingo.

Legolas looks down at the Dwarf and tries not to sigh. Mithrandir thinks that they, together, will be able to puzzle out the riddle that is above the Doors of Moria. The howling of the wolves at the edge of his hearing tells him they are running out of time, and Legolas – truly – has no idea.

The doors, so runs the logic of Mithrandir, were crafted by an Elf and a Dwarf together as a sign of great friendship between their two kingdoms. But Legolas is an Elf of Mirkwood – Sindar by blood and Silvan by nature – and he is not in a position to decipher the thoughts of a Dwarf-loving Noldo from an Age ago. Likewise, Gimli is not a Dwarf of Moria but of Erebor, and an alliance between _their_ peoples was lost between the combined stubbornness of Kings Thranduil and Thorin. It is doubtful he knows how this hopeful Narvi must have felt as he inscribed his name in Elvish above an Elvish gate.

The doors remain emphatically shut.

Not for the first time, Legolas wishes he was less awkward. He doesn’t know how to speak with others well. Perhaps, if he did, a personal alliance could have been formed and Mithrandir’s request could have been fulfilled. In another life, he thinks, the password could have been spoken – his own fair voice floating above Gimli’s strong baritone – but that life is only a passing fantasy to take his mind off the growing awkward silence between them and the howling of approaching wolves.

Mithrandir’s request is not fair.

A part of Legolas – a large part, he is not afraid to admit – balks at the idea of speaking to a Dwarf with any degree of intimacy. It is the part of him that still fears his father’s mercurial temper; who remembers the stories of Doriath brought to ruin through betrayal; who saw a dragon seek the treasures of Thror and blight a once vibrant landscape. Gimli, to a degree, frightens him more than any of the others. They are surrounded by Orcs and wolves and spies of Saruman, Mithrandir’s tricks and tempers he has heard much of, the Ring hangs gaudy and tempting about the neck of a Hobbit – these are the things he should fear, but instead it is a fiery look from the Dwarf of their Fellowship that quails his heart.

He doesn’t know how to speak of this. If he should speak of it. He speaks, on the rare occasion that he can find the words, of songs and birds to Aragorn or in the slights and insults learned at his father’s knee. He has the impression that Mithrandir is unimpressed, but knows not how to change it. Even if he opens his mouth to give a compliment, he somehow manages to offend.

The doors still remain shut.

Gimli looks up at him, expression fierce, and Legolas wonders which of them shall curse and throw the first stone this time. A thousand insults spill their bitter poison over his tongue, flooding his mouth in preparation. There will be no peace between them tonight – no amnesty – and the doors will remain shut.

He doesn’t know how to change it.


	5. Stiff Necks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady of the Wood has urged Gimli to set aside his pride. He's not the only one.

_“You have great pride, son of Gloin,”_ the voice in his mind whispers. The Lady’s eyes stare into his own, deep blue and lit with stars. _“Your pride is warranted, but do not let it blind you. Open your eyes, son of Gloin, and see what is before you.”_

She does not mean herself, though she is beautiful beyond all measure – the Arkenstone amongst diamonds – but the Elf. An image of him rises in his mind, pale and wan in the creeping darkness of Khazad-dum; of tears tracking down marble cheeks when Gandalf fell. He bristles at the thought that the Elf should be pitied – son, as he is, of that fiend Thranduil – but he cannot deny that the Elf is beautiful. More so, in a way, than the Lady before him: he is more real.

He feels her amusement at his thoughts before the connection between them is broken and she looks away towards Boromir, who soon finds grief in her penetrating look.

What she said to the Elf, Gimli does not know. Legolas is silent for the rest of the night, bar an explanation of the laments that drift through the trees. A storm rages in his eyes, but he sheds no more tears for what is lost to them – instead he seems lost, if Gimli is reading his ageless face correctly.

He does not find out for days. Legolas vanishes into the trees, seeking solitude or speaking with whatever kin he has here, but he returns to them each night, glowing pale with starlight in the manner of Elves, and sits with them as they sleep.

It is on one such night that Gimli swallows his pride. “Are you well, laddie?” he asks.

Legolas looks to him, and were Gimli’s eyes less accustomed to the dark, he would have missed the faint blush that colours the tips of his pointed ears. But the Elf nods and offers a small smile, and a weight that Gimli had barely noticed lifts from his chest.

“I have never seen this forest before,” Legolas says quietly, “though I have distant kin who live beneath its boughs.” 

He’s been exploring, then, to distract himself. Gimli can appreciate that – though he wonders at Legolas not coming to visit with his kin. When he mentions it, the Elf grimaces and looks away.

“Mirkwood is isolated,” he says, as if that is all to be said. There is a pause while they both struggle with words; while thoughts race through Gimli’s head and the memory of the Lady’s eyes upon him urges him to speak, though he knows not what.

“I am sending home a message,” Legolas says eventually. His words come in a rush, as if he does not know how Gimli will receive them. “If it is your wish, a message to Erebor can also be arranged.”

For his kin to know him alive (so far) and well. It’s a greater gift than perhaps Legolas can tell, distant as he is from those who share his blood, but greatly appreciated. And it is then that he realises that the Lady’s urgings to let go of pride were not just for his ears; the Elf received such words as well.

He swallows his pride, and lets the peace of the wood fill him. “Thank you.”

Legolas nods, and Gimli turns away. It is little, but it is a start.


	6. Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindir awaits his Lord's return from Dol Guldur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt on the Hobbit Kink Meme

He cannot stop himself from looking. He is busier than ever – an early, harsh winter has brought the Dunedain seeking shelter, and it is Lindir’s job to find rooms for them and supplies enough to last comfortably – but even that cannot stop his gaze from turning at every opportunity to the Misty Mountains. 

His Lord is on the other side of those mountains, and truly, they have never looked so oppressive to him; so cold and forbidding. Thick clouds, heavy with snow, swirl around their peaks, and every day the blanket of white descends further down into the valley. Crossing them now would be foolhardy – even Lords Elladan and Elrohir have returned from their incessant travels – yet that is what his Lord has done. He has travelled to the east with Curunir and the Lady Galadriel to fight the Necromancer that haunts Dol Guldur along with whatever creatures he might have at his command. Lindir is terrified by the very idea of it.

Southern Mirkwood is a long way from Imladris. There should have been little to fear in whispers from a distant forest, but Lindir had been witness to the aftermath of the White Council’s meeting. He has watched his Lord become progressively more stressed. Mithrandir left the Morgul blade behind him when he left, and more than once, Lindir has caught his Lord studying it. He fears the Necromancer more for the lines he has caused to form between his Lord’s brows far more than for any potential threat he feels.

Imladris is well protected. Vilya remains, placed on Lord Glorfindel’s hand, and the defences that rely on its power are strong. What Lindir fears is his Lord’s absence and the danger he is in. The thought that he might never return.

His love for his Lord is inappropriate. Hugely inappropriate. He keeps his distance from his Lord in all but professional matters and keeps the truth of his heart a secret. The Lady Celebrian waits for Lord Elrond across the sea; Lindir, no matter what he feels, has no place even trying to interfere with that. 

_But_. That knowledge doesn’t stop him from craving his Lord’s affection. It doesn’t stop the desire that courses through his veins. It doesn’t stop him from worrying constantly.

He distracts himself with the Dunedain. He manages grain stores and laundry and concerns himself with the expense of running the Last Homely House. He chases after young Estel, attempts to keep Lords Elladan and Elrohir from causing too much trouble, and he fights to keep his countenance as light as he can lest any suspect that his heart is aching.

He must have faith, he tells himself every time his gaze travels to the east; he must have faith that his Lord will return to him. 

And when he returns, Lindir will have kept Imladris well. It is the only thing, after all, that he can do to prove his devotion.


	7. Bedrolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narvi is cold at night; Celebrimbor seeks to rectify that.

Narvi is shivering again. Celebrimbor knows little of what it means to be cold – Elves don’t feel it as mortals do and the bite of winter is a fleeting thing – but he knows that Narvi feels it deeply. It cuts through him; through his clothes and hair and flesh, and seeps down into his bones. Out here, in their camp in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, he is curled in his bedroll and desperately missing the warmth of the mine and the insulation of thick stone.

He is small, curled up so. So cold that Celebrimbor can hear his teeth chattering and his breath stuttering. It is a noise that makes his heart ache.

Narvi is different somehow, from the other Dwarves he has met. How, Celebrimbor knows not – he is short and bearded and as sarcastic as they come. He is gloriously skilled, but that’s not it either. It frustrates and excites him all at once, and laying here listening to Narvi suffer is painful.

He sits up. Narvi doesn’t so much as twitch – either he is somehow managing to sleep through the chill he feels or he is determined to ignore Celebrimbor’s actions. Celebrimbor waits a moment more, trying to determine which, but another body-wracking shudder has him sliding to his knees and crawling across the floor of their tent to where Narvi is laying.

Another moment’s hesitation. Enough to decide that the myriad reasons why he shouldn’t do what he is about to are worthless before he curls himself around Narvi and drags his own bedroll over them both. He casts an arm over Narvi’s body, drawing him close, and he feels it when Narvi stops shivering.

He is sleeping, he decides, and he finds comfort in that. There will be no awkward questions tonight, at least. They can be saved for the morning when all will no doubt be different between them. He tries to imagine a day without the sound of Narvi’s laughter or a gruffly spoken anecdote; without the sound of his name – at least, a _variant_ of his name, which is apparently near-impossible to pronounce when one’s first language is Khuzdul – on Narvi’s lips. He has lived such days before; lived a full age of the world filled with such days, but the thought of them now seems near unbearable.

Narvi shifts against his side, moving so that his back is pressed neatly to Celebrimbor’s belly – a perfect fit; a missing puzzle piece – and his body is curved around Celebrimbor’s forearm. “Sleep,” he mutters, his accent so thick as to be near incomprehensible. “I can _hear_ you bloody thinking.”

Celebrimbor smiles, draws him closer, and nods – pressing his nose into the tangle of Narvi’s hair, smelling stone dust and the river water he used to try and wash it. “As you wish,” he replies.

He thinks, as he casts his mind into the realm of dreams, that he was cold as well, on his own. That perhaps he simply didn’t notice it before this night.


End file.
